All Chapters of Claimed by My Brother’s Best Friend (A Mafia Romance): Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

ISABELLAThe night refused me. I lay on my back and watched the ceiling like it might give me a map stains and hairline cracks forming roads I could follow out. Liliana’s plan kept replaying in my head in bright, furious flashes: the whispered timing, the way she’d said my name like it was a promise, not a plan. Every time I closed my eyes my pulse answered with the same hard drum: do it, Isa.I sat up when dawn thinned the room to gray. My hands trembled as I smoothed my dress, as if the fabric could iron out the knot of fear behind my ribs. I practiced the smile I’d wear in front of Damian, the soft, grateful one he liked the one that said, I belong here. It was a mask I’d learned to fit perfectly.When he came in, the room changed. He moved like a man who knew the shape of power, and yet this morning his hand went straight to my belly the same way some men fold their coat against the cold. He pressed his lips there, a small, careful kiss, and for a second the house seemed to hold i

VINCENTWhere the hell could they be? Each second that ticked past felt like sand slipping through my fingers, each one another chance for Damian to get to them first. The thought alone twisted like a blade in my chest, sharp and merciless.The crowd surged around me at the airport exit heels clicking, luggage wheels rattling, voices colliding in impatient waves but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heartbeat. I gripped the handle of my briefcase tighter, the leather creaking under my hand as I pushed forward.Then buzz.The vibration in my palm made me stop dead in my tracks. My phone screen lit up with a number I didn’t recognize. For a moment I just stared, cold prickles running up my spine. Instinct screamed caution, but I swiped it open anyway.This is Liliana, your sister’s best friend. I am with Isabella. You might be wondering how I got your number I’m good at finding things. She told me you are alive and that she misses you. I’ll send you our location. Come and see

VINCENTI don’t sleep. The study smells of old paper and cold coffee; the city outside is a smear of neon and rain. I sit at the desk until my hand cramps, watching the door more out of habit than hope. Maria was supposed to be quick efficient. She’s the one I shaped: precise, hard, trained to disappear and reappear with answers.The door opens like a promise breaking.Light slices the room and her shape steps through all angles and practiced calm until she folds. Maria drops to one knee so fast it looks rehearsed; her forehead hovers a breath away from the carpet. Her palms come together at chest height, not in prayer so much as in the last motion of someone trying to gather courage from air. A sliver of steel peeks from under her boot; the lamplight kisses it and goes cold. She does not touch it. She never gives me that show of panic except tonight her shoulders slump in a way that makes her look younger, thinner, like the steel in her spine has been loosened.“Boss,” she says. Th

RICARDOSomething had been gnawing at me ever since the night I tore my sister from that monster’s hands. The feeling was like a shadow that refused to leave, curling at the back of my mind. I couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard I tried.A few days ago, I called one of my men in New York to dig into Damian’s whereabouts. The report came back short, sharp, and impossible.“Damian is dead.”I froze when the words replayed in my mind. No. It didn’t make sense. Damian couldn’t just vanish into death. But if it was true… then Matteo would take the throne. And if Matteo took over, he would come for me.The thought slammed through me like a blade. My fist came down hard on the mahogany table, rattling the glass ashtray at the edge. “Fuck!”I didn’t waste another second. I grabbed my phone and barked into it, “Bring Lola to my office now. Make sure my strongest men are with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”My sister was the only soft spot I had left, and Matteo know it. I couldn’t let

LOLAFour days. That’s how long it’s been since we landed in New York, yet I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse of Matteo.Not that I’m complaining. The last time I saw him was in Paris the night he tore me from my brother’s arms like I was some prize he’d won. That memory still burns, jagged and raw.Since then, I’ve been hidden away here. “Kept” feels too kind, like a word someone uses to dress up cruelty. This isn’t a home; it’s a cage wearing a room’s skin. The wallpaper peels like old wounds, curling and cracking at the edges. The bed sags in the middle, its thin mattress rubbing my back raw when I try to sleep. Even the clock on the wall has teeth its steady tick-tick-tick biting into my skull, a metronome counting down my captivity.I press my forehead to the windowpane. The glass is so cold it feels like it’s leeching heat straight out of my skull. Tiny beads of condensation collect where my breath hits and disappear as quickly as my hope. From this angle, I can see fragment